Pick You Up
by Acepilot6
Summary: New fic. PK. We all have someone who helps us through the rough times. We don't always think about the pain it causes them, though. Please review.


**Lyricless. For original version, see Luke's AGU Forums.**

**Pick You Up**  
Acepilot

AN - My first fresh fic since...well, for a long while. Songfic to the Powderfinger song of the same name, which I initially didn't like but has rather grown on me. Hope you all enjoy it. It's a bit shamelessly romantic. I've got to admit that I wrote myself into something of a corner on this one, and I rejected about six different endings. I settled on the one that I felt fit the characters best. This story just came to me as a result of listening to the song, which inspired the image of a tearful Kimi arriving at Phil's door in the middle of the night. Maybe someone can draw it for me? Please review.

Disclaimer - the characters in this fanfiction are property of Klasky-Csupo. The song "Pick You Up" was written by Powderfinger.

---

I don't even need to open the door to know it's her. Somehow, I just seem to know. After it's happened so many times. All the nights that my quiet evening at home has been broken by her unexpected arrival. All the nights that I've opened my door to find her on the other side, tears overflowing her beautiful eyes.

I never know why it is she comes here. I never know why she doesn't go to Lil. Or Suzie. They're girls. Girls are meant to stick together through these kinds of things, aren't they? That was always the impression I got. They comforted each other with...ice-cream and chocolate or whatever. I tried to offer her some ice-cream one time she came here - after she broke up with James, I think it was. But she just kind of glared at me.

That was another thing I always kind of though went on at these kinds of nights between girls. The cursing of all men. She had a go at my gender one night. After she broke up with Luke. I opened my door that night and caught an overnight bag in the gut as she stormed into my apartment, fuming and fiery instead of her more usual sobbing tearfulness, and screamed at me that my possession of..."dangly bits", I think was the phrase she used, made me one of the most singlularly idiotic beings on the earth, but comforted me by letting me know that there were billions of other men who shared my moronic status. This went on for about fifteen minutes before I managed to get her to stop and take a breath.

Then it went on for about another thirty.

The best I can figure for her coming here is that, the first time this happened, I was the only one in town. The night that she and her most serious boyfriend to date - at least, to my knowledge - broke up, everyone had been having the most hectic weekends of their lives, leaving me as the only person home, at my apratment, for her to turn to. To pick up the pieces.

That night was rough. For both of us, I think. I certainly had very little clue as to how to deal with a crying girl and my loyalty and love for her was enough to make me want to go and find Chris and thump him. Very, very hard. Of course, he'd have probably beaten the snot out of me, but it would have been worth it. And she of course was in an even worse position, being the one of us who had just been broken up with.

So she stayed the night. Now, I think, it's just habit that she comes here moreso than anywhere else after her relationships end. And though she doesn't really have that many of them, it kind of feels that way. Especially when I seem to always catch the end of them all.

So when I open the door tonight, I at least know what to expect. But that doesn't make it any easier to see her standing there in front of me, crying, in pain.

As she falls into my comforting embrace, I run over in my head what I know of her latest beau. Nick. Short, blonde. Blue eyes.

That's all I can think of.

I've learnt it's best never to learn too much about her boyfriends. Not because they come and go too quickly. No, that's not it.

"Hey," I whisper into her hair as she cries on my chest. "Come on, I'll make you a coffee."

She nods against me but doesn't let go completely as I pick up the bag behind her and bring her into the apartment. I compromise by wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we walk, very slowly and tentatively, into my living room. I lower her down onto the couch and she's racked with sobs - some silent and some definitely vocalised - as I debate whether I should indeed make the coffee or stay here and comfort her some more. I finally settle on the latter and sit down next to her on the couch. She collapses against my shoulder and I wrap my arms around her once more, running a hand through her deep black hair.

I never learn too much about her boyfriends because I noticed that they're all as far from me as possible.

"It'll be alright," I assure her. I always do.

"No it won't, Phil," she tells me. "There's something wrong with me. There must be."

"No!" I exclaim. "Kimi, there's nothing wrong with you."

"Then why do I have such a long list of failed relationships?" she asks. "Why do things always end just as we start getting serious? It can't all be them."

I pull back from her slightly. "No, Kimi, trust me. There is nothing wrong with you. I don't know why things never work out for you. But it's not you, okay? You're perfect. Any man would love you."

"Then why don't any?"

It's not that they don't, Kim. It's that they're too afraid to say anything.

"I'll get you that drink, okay?"

She nods.

We've had this conversation before.

I pull the coffee tin down from the cupboard and go about fixing us drinks, but I feel numb all over.

It's one thing to not be able to help someone. It hurts like hell and makes you want to die, almost. But it's another thing entirely to not be able to help someone who turns to you for help. Who counts on you for help.

Who you love.

Is it wrong? Is it wrong that every time she comes here after she breaks up with a guy, I just want to kiss her and promise her that I can make it all better if she'll just let me hold her, let me take care of her, let me love her. I've wanted to be with her for so long that it makes it all the more painful to sit back and watch these unworthy...morons hurt her, time and time again, and leave me to pick her up afterwards.

I stifle my own tears as I lean over the bench. They won't do anyone any good.

**_

* * *

_**

She sits back down on the couch, her still-da,mp hair wrapped in a towel. She looks refreshed after her shower, but her eyes are still red and the tear tracks haven't been scrubbed away, letting me know that she's still hurting, still in pain.

As if I could have ever forgotten.

"Thanks," she tells me.

"Not necessary, you know that," I remind her.

We've had this conversation before.

She reaches over and takes my hand in hers, squeezing it. "I know. But I mean it."

"I know you do."

I want this moment to last forever. I want the smile creeping in on her face to be because she's happy, not because of her gratefulness for my caring. I never want her to let go of my hand, I want her to know I love her so much, so much that every time she comes to me in pain I just want to hold her and never let go.

But that's all a dream.

"Are you feeling any better?" I ask, stroking her thumb with my own.

"A little," she tells me. "I guess I'm not really that shattered over things ending between ,me and Nick."

"Why not?" I ask, shocked. "Don't tell me it's because of you, because Kim, you and I both know -"

"No, it's not that," she assures me. "It's just...well, I guess we never really got that close."

Now I'm puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Well, we were close, sure," she tells me, making slight hand-gestures so that I catch the implication. "But I guess there was never really any solid connection there. We didn't even say 'I love you'."

I blink. "Oh."

"I knew he wasn't right for me," she continues, but she's not looking at me any more. She seems more focussed on something over my shoulder and I kill the impulse to turn around and look. "I don't know how I knew, I just knew." She finally resumes her focus on me. "Do you ever get that feeling?"

"A lot," I tell her honestly. "A lot."

She leans back and releases my hand, and I feel suddenly cold with the distance between us. "Do you think we'll ever find love?"

"I don't know," I tell her. "I'd like to think that we would."

"So would I," she agrees. "So would I."

* * *

I stare at myself in the mirror. 

I almost told her.

When she asked me if I thought we'd ever find love. I almost - almost - said that I had. That I'd found the most perfect girl in the world.

That I'd found her.

But it's the wrong time.

It's always the wrong time.

That's the thing about being the one she turns to when she's in pain, when her relationships are freshly being mourned. It's the wrong time to tell her how I feel. No matter how good it might make me feel to get it off my chest, she's just ended things with someone she's close to. Someone she might love.

And one of the first things I ever learnt was never to hook up with a girl - never to even try to hook up with a girl - who is on the rebound.

But, despite it all, I almost told her.

I can justify my near-slip in any number of ways. The fact that she doesn't appear all that miffed by things ending with Nick is a good start. It's tempting to just take that in the most ideal way, and to tell her that I think she is the right one for me, and that I want to try to be the right one for her. But I don't think that'll work. Whether she saw it coming or not, she's still bouncing out of a relatively serious relationship, and that just spells disaster and hurt no matter which way you look at it.

I fling my towel around my shoulders and march resignedly out of the bathroom, back into the breach.

She's curled up on the couch still. She's flicked on the TV and is cycling through channels. Romantic shows are getting rejected faster than any other station.

"Half a million stations and nothing worth watching, huh?" she offers in a bemused voice.

I grin. "True, true."

She settles on a music channel showing Nick Cave preparing to bash Kylie Minogue's skull in with a rock, at which I raise an eyebrow but remain silent. Or at least, I try to. "You sure this break-up isn't having a bigger effect on you than you're letting on?"

She gives me an odd look, and I pointedly glance at the TV. She flicks between the two and immediately comprehends. "Oh. No, I just like the video."

"Ah." I decide to believe her, because not doing so is hardly going to get me anywhere. "Do you want another drink?"

"No, I'm alright."

"Do you want to talk?"

She turns away from me. "So, how's your life going?"

I sigh, knowing instantly what's about to happen. It's not like we haven't been through all this before. "Yeah, I've been alright. Work is...well, work. It keeps me busy. I saw Lil last week."

"How's she been? I haven't had the time to go see her and Tommy since Dil's birthday."

"She's good. Lou is crawling."

"Already?"

"Yeah, I know. Freaky, huh?"

This is easy. This is free-flowing, simple conversation, with no stressfulness laced through it.

But it's not going to get us anywhere.

"How's Tommy?"

"He's good. Been keeping himself busy. About to start shooting in a couple of months."

"Great."

I raise my head. "Do you want a drink?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm alright."

"Do you want to talk?"

"So the Flames are getting killed this season."

"Hey, we're in the eight!"

"Yeah, just. Come on, when are you going to see the Flyers are the only way to go."

"Oh sure. All you people who's teams are heading for the President's Trophy say that. I will stand by my team through thick and thin."

"Yeah, sure, keep deluding yourself into thinking that."

"Hey, Conroy hasn't had this good a season in years."

"And isn't that telling you something?"

"Look, trading off Iginla was a bad idea, I admit -"

"Yeah, what tipped you off?"

"- but we're doing fine without him. You watch. Stanley Cup playoff - Flyers and Flames."

"Dream on, boy-oh."

I roll my eyes. "Do you want a drink?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk?"

She looks away from me. But this time, at last, she doesn't change the subject. "Yeah, I think I do."

**_

* * *

I awaken to the sensation of someone watching me. _**

I reluctantly crack an eyelid open. I can't see much through the narrow opening and I urge my eye further open.

Kimi is laying sort-of on top of me, her head on my chest, watching me with a thoughtful expression. It's only when I see her that I notice the weight pressing me into what I figure has to be the couch. For a fearful moment I'm worried that we did something very wrong last night, but I'm pleased to find that we're both wearing a reasonable amount of clothes which suggests that we didn't do anything untoward. The memory of talking to the very small hours of the morning comes meandering back into my mind and I'm glad for it.

"Why do you never let me thank you?"

I raise an eyebrow at Kimi, though the angle from which I'm doing it makes me wonder if she caught the expression. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you never let me thank you for helping me?" she asks. "Every time I try and express my gratitude, you cut me off or tell me not to. Like you don't want my thanks."

"You're my best friend," I tell her. "You don't need to thank me."

"But this isn't just a best friend thing," she tells me. "This goes so far above and beyond the call of duty that it's something that deserves thanks, no matter how close we are. But you never let me."

"Can we not have this conversation in this position?" I ask, hopeful.

But she shakes her head at me. "No, I want to know. Don't you feel like you deserve my thanks?"

No. I don't. I think that maybe, at some level, I'm doing this because I love you and it gives me an opportunity to be close to you, so I don't think I deserve thanks. I think I might be doing this under false pretenses.

"No, I don't."

She shakes her head at me and stretches up to kiss me on the cheek. I rub at the spot surprised. "What was that for?"

She smiles at me, but I can see something different in her eyes. Something I can't put my finger on. "It's my way of saying thanks that you can't stop," she tells me. "I'm lucky to have someone like you to pick me up after everything life throws at me."

"Any time," I assure her, though I feel the words turn bitter in my mouth.

She grins and kisses me on the cheek again.

When she pulls back, that look in her eyes is back. And it's making me feel nervous, insecure.

"I love you, you know," she tells me.

Part of me wants to just say 'i know' or something and leave it at that. She only means it as a friend - I'm not nearly stupid enough to delude myself into beliving otherwise.

But another part of me does want to believe otherwise. Another part of me wants to tell her how much I love her, how much I need her in my life, how much it pains me to see her with these jerks who inevitably hurt her. How much I want to just be there for her and make everything right. To be the right guy she was seeking last night. To be everything for her.

Neither part wins.

"I love you too," I tell her.

She shakes her head at me and that look in her eyes finally makes sense. "No you don't. You _love_ me."

I blink. In some ways I'm deathly afraid of where this is about to go. But another part of me just wants to follow it to it's conclusion. "Yeah. I do."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asks.

"There never seemed to be a good time," I offer. "You were always with someone, or just broken up, or busy, or...you knew?"

"No. But I worked it out."

I nod. "I was afraid you might."

She steels her gaze on me. "Is this the only reason you ever helped me? Because you loved me?"

I shake my head. "No, god no. I helped you because we're friends. I would have whether I love you or not." While I'd been debating about this in my mind mere minutes ago, now that I'm confronted with the question, the answer somehow comes to me without any uncertainty attatched. "Do you love me?"

She nods. "In some ways."

"In enough ways?"

She nods. "Nick and I broke up because I was keeping him at arms length, and he got tired of never knowing if things were going to go any further. I couldn't because I knew it wasn't right. But this feels..."

I nod. "So where do we go from here?"

She kisses me, softly, lovingly. It's something I've always dreamt of but never really allowed myself to imagine. Thus I have no expectations for it to live up to. But even if I did, it would have exceeded them all. "Wherever we want."

**_

* * *

--- _**

you have no idea how hard this fic has been to write. i sincerely hope you enjoyed it. please review.


End file.
